


Unnerved

by Purplehead



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-08
Updated: 2016-07-08
Packaged: 2018-07-22 09:19:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7429047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Purplehead/pseuds/Purplehead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This story follows a person lost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unnerved

**Author's Note:**

> This is a WIP, I know it's very short, however, more chapters will come soon!

I can barely hear him over the loud music. The bass is thumping, the raving guitars are battling with each other. From over here I can see the sweat on the player’s faces, slowly rolling down, being collected in their soaked shirts. My attention keeps getting grabbed, quite forcibly, by the man playing the drums. The lighting hasn’t been set up very properly tonight, so I can’t see him too well, perhaps the vagueness, the dark, helps my brain to see something that obviously cannot be. See someone that obviously would not be here. Because he is dead. Just like my past life, the life that I lead from my eleventh to my nineteenth year. The most formative years of one’s life, I once heard a researcher say. I certainly hope that’s not true, my fucked life really would have no chance of improvement then.

“Oi!”

My eyes rapidly move to the person standing in front of me. He looks pissed. As he probably well should be, I’ve been watching the drummer for over a minute now.  
“Can I finally get a pint or what?”  
His hair is matted down in the front, he probably is one of the more fanatic dancers, moving right in front of the stage, dancing to the rage of the instruments and the thunder of the voice of the lead singer. He must be thirsty.  
“Yeah, of course. Sorry.”  
I pour him his pint, give him an apologetic smile and accept the notes he gives me in return. After giving him his change, he gives me a weird, lingering look and turns around. Back to the dancers he goes, drinking half his pint on the way there. 

A flurry of new customers flock to the bar. These are not the people one should expect at a gig like this. First of all, they’re girls, which 70% of the people inside of this room is not, second of all they’re too blond and their heals are too high. They seem a little lost as they approach my bar, looking around in a way a scared animal would, the first time they walked into a new enclosure. Not knowing what to expect or how they should behave. The clothes they wear seem too new, too much like they’re trying to fit in with this mass of mostly black wearing, sweating, pumping group of people. The music has come to a stop, the song having come to an end. For a few seconds I’m confused as to why there is silence, why the front man doesn’t fill this room with his voice anymore, but then I notice his searching look around this place, looking, searching for someone. Finally he finds it when he notices the girls now standing uncomfortably by my bar, he waves. The look on his face is one of happiness, some lingering doubt has been removed from his face by the sight of the prettiest girl in her group. He wasn’t sure she’d come, show up to his show. She probably had promised to go to one of the previous ones before, but had always had an excuse. Now she didn’t, and here she is, accompanied by her fickle group of protectors. The look on the face of their leader doesn’t echo his, though she smiles it’s still obvious she’s nervous, and maybe a little bit disgusted by the grime and grubbiness of this place. I serve them their drinks: thee vodka with sparkling water, one dry white wine and one diet coke. 

The rest of the night is a blur between serving different people and occasionally looking at the drummer, whose features still unnerved me to the core.


End file.
